Recommended if you like Beck
Recommended if you like Beck
Sending under duress.
Fighting in the captain’s tower.
Two Sikh kids.
Real CIA asset?
Fake AFL-CIO advisor?
Golitsyn as Snowden.
Don’t know the Russian soul.
Death during questioning.
Montreal hotel room.
The Wohlstetters plotting 9/11.
Teaching false-flags to chickenshit Wolfowitz and others.
Focusing on Pearl Harbor.
Telegraphing “new Pearl Harbor”.
Colin Powell gone.
Alec Baldwin bizarre shooting.
Skull and Bones.
Physical surveillance of Brit Hume.
Reading Jane Fonda’s mail from the Soviet Union.
Opening of PRC mail at JFK NYC.
Surveillance of dissident groups.
Surveillance in Detroit.
Approximately 10,000 US citizens under CIA surveillance for being antiwar.
Michael Gilday loyalty in question.
Frank Olson “jumped” out of a window.
Why did De Niro trash Trump for four years?
De Niro is CIA.
Why does Jolie push climate change bullshit?
Jolie is CIA.
Why was Alec Baldwin [real or simulated] made to assassinate his own director of photography?
Because he had mocked Trump for four years by way of impersonation.
Because he had become anti-American.
Because he repeatedly belittled half the country (the half that voted for Trump) on Twitter.
Because he was in The Hunt for Red October.
Because this was planned long ago.
Putin jails Navalny.
Xi launches a hypersonic, Earth-orbiting, nuclear-capable missile [space nuke].
U.S. military intelligence and special operations quietly take out Rumsfeld.
Then Colin Powell.
And then a masterfully-inscrutable humiliation PSYOP involving Alec Baldwin.
The message to Russia and China from Q group?
Don’t fuck with us.
A show of capability.
To message [signalling].
To rule the airwaves despite Chinese infiltration.
To operate and engineer.
To pull off a flawless mission.
Was Alec Baldwin given an offer he couldn’t refuse?
Perhaps Baldwin has been receiving money from the PRC?
In exchange for leniency, he was asked to do what he does best: act.
He was asked to pretend to shoot his director of photography.
Or one bullet was loaded and Baldwin was humiliated in a much darker way.
Perhaps Halyna Hutchins was fitted with blood packs.
Moving along a continuum, there are many possibilities.
But the purpose was to send a message to Russia and China.
All were told to keep quiet on the grounds of national security.
Six crew members leave.
Who do you think replaced them?
“And Gauguin, he buggered off, man, and went all tropical.”
Sang Nick Cave.
On the brilliant song “There She Goes, My Beautiful World”.
And our world is going to shit.
So let’s get some answers, shall we?
“The pathogen and the disease it causes are modeled largely on SARS, but it is more transmissible in the community setting by people with mild symptoms.”
Former Deputy Director of the CIA.
Instead of CNN, Event 201 came up with a fake news channel called GNN which supplemented the reality of its war game.
Go to 1’17” in video.
Correlation does not necessarily imply causation, but consider the following:
A. The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation helps put on the Event 201 coronavirus simulation on October 10, 2019
B. Bill Gates leaves the boards of directors of Berkshire Hathaway [Warren Buffett] and Microsoft on March 13, 2020
C. 94 of the 154 coronavirus deaths in the U.S. as of March 20, 2020 were in Washington State [specifically in the King County (Seattle) area]: Bill Gates’ home
Bill Gates’ father was the former head of Planned Parenthood.
The Gates Foundation gave $82 million to Planned Parenthood organizations over the years 2009-2015.
The Event 201 bat coronavirus simulation in NYC on 10/19/19 was cosponsored by the World Economic Forum.
Among its board members is Al Gore.
Also among its board members is Queen Rania of Jordan.
If you look at the Twitter account of John Podesta (Hillary Clinton’s 2016 campaign chairman), you will find that the first person he followed on Twitter was Queen Rania.
Also on the World Economic Forum board is David M. Rubenstein of the Carlyle Group.
The Carlyle Group has a close connection to the Bush family.
On the morning of 9/11/01, the Carlyle Group was meeting in Washington, D.C.
Who was at that meeting?
“Event 201 was supported by funding from the Open Philanthropy Project.”
What is the Open Philanthropy Project?
Who runs it?
One of the founders of Facebook (and his wife).
Dustin Moskovitz (the person in question) donated $20 million to Hillary Clinton’s campaign. He was the third-largest donor in the 2016 campaigns.
Melinda Gates is on the board of The Washington Post.
Bill Gates has attended the Bilderberg Meetings.
Both Bill and Melinda Gates were considered by Hillary Clinton staffers as possible running mates for her 2016 run.
Are you seeing a theme here?
This amazingly prescient Event 201 which had a scenario (see above link) that mirrors the present coronavirus outbreak almost exactly (transmission of a coronavirus from bats to humans…misunderstanding of community spread dynamics owing to mistaken comparison to SARS) was headed and funded almost entirely by left-wing, globalist people who support the Democratic Party in the United States. The only “foil” might be the Carlyle Group presence on WEF’s board (a connection to the equally-globalist, anti-Trump Bush family).
The Clintons and the Bushes. Lots of money. Unequivocally anti-Trump. And they just happen to run a coronavirus simulation a few months BEFORE the current outbreak even began in China.
Bill Gates has plenty of money.
He can withstand the shock to his personal bank account.
The Democrats (and Marxist globalists) were unable to impeach Trump. Before that, they were unable to have Robert Mueller (former FBI Director) bring down Trump for “colluding” with Russia in the 2016 election.
So what did they have left in their effort to unseat the populist Trump?
Were they backed into a corner?
Was their collective corruption about to come to light?
Perhaps they played their last card: attempt to destroy the U.S. economy with a pandemic PSYOP.
An average of 25,000 American die every year from the flu, but we don’t close the whole country down.
In 2017-2018, the CDC estimates that 61,000 Americans died from the flu.
Finally, how did a Johns Hopkins website become the end-all/be-all source for global and American coronavirus statistics? Why was Johns Hopkins working with the Gates Foundation for the 10/19/19 bat coronavirus simulation Event 201 in NYC? Has the simulation now become “real”?
Which brings us back to Gauguin…and Godard.
And part two of the greatest film ever made (in my opinion).
Histoire(s) du cinéma.
Godard contends in this 42 minute segment that cinema (the movie industry) is really a part of the cosmetics industry.
Everything is masked (and anonymous).
All is façade.
Godard further excoriates Hollywood by calling it a minor branch of the industry of lies.
Quite a humorous and pithy insult.
It is true that Godard was an avowed Marxist.
And even a Maoist.
And so it’s no surprise that he references Bertolt Brecht.
But Godard was, at this point in his career, becoming less of a radical (politically) and more of a humanist.
He was mellowing as a political firebrand.
But he was hitting his apex of creative experimentation.
I must admit.
This section is not the strongest of his eight-part masterpiece.
Section one Toutes les histoires is a tour de force.
But section two, Une Histoire seule, is a bit of a sophomore slump.
Or a lull.
A composer cannot maintain a fever-pitch indefinitely.
The great auteur got our attention in the first section.
And then he eases up.
He played the “head” (as in jazz).
And now he is beginning to improvise.
At first, he loosely pounds out the melody à la Thelonious Monk.
It sounds like more of the same.
And it is.
But it’s subtle.
It is a creator pondering his own creation.
“What have I just created?”
He turns it over and surveys it.
He feels its dimensions.
He tosses it and catches it like a baseball.
He estimates its weight.
The greatest movie ever made, Histoire(s) du cinéma, is not a movie in the strictest sense of the word.
It is not a narrative film per se.
There is very little NEW footage within.
Just like James Joyce’s magnum opus Finnegans Wake, it is not a novel.
It is much closer to poetry.
But it is novel (adj.).
This is a film review.
it has been a little while.
And I have been immersed in a strange dual-study regimen focused on the LSAT and the GRE.
For my international readers, the LSAT is the Law School Admission Test and the GRE is the Graduate Record Examination.
The second test would be required should I choose (or be so lucky as) to go on to PhD studies.
Quite frankly, my MBA has not been sufficient to wow the employers out to which I have reached.
And so life presents us with little conundrums.
I have a bachelor’s degree in music theory/composition and a master’s degree in business.
Long ago, my bachelor’s degree wasn’t enough to gain me employment at places like 7-Eleven and Wendy’s. That’s right. Five years of higher education and a diploma above and beyond the high school level was not enough to overcome the nepotistic morass which dominates the distribution of unskilled labor jobs in the U.S.
I’m guessing this situation might (for obvious reasons) be particularly mark-ed in the American Southwest (where I am located).
So I thought a master’s degree in business would really distinguish me.
I worked myself sick.
Almost to death.
Maintained a 4.00 GPA.
Not only have I had zero unsolicited interest in my skills, but I have received nothing save rejections.
Which is to say, I have not even been graced with an interview.
And so it was some days ago (about two weeks) that I decided I should have a contingency plan in place in case such conditions persist.
So perhaps I will find myself in law school in a few years.
Perhaps in a PhD program.
But I have been trying to better myself every day.
My focus, academically, has been on two areas: logic and mathematics.
I have never been very keen on (or good at) math.
And logic is something in which I have had zero formal training.
The logic emphasis is, of course, pursuant to the law school possibility.
The math studies (currently algebra, but geometry and statistics to come) are in support of the PhD path.
In addition, I am happy to report that I am exercising (walking) every day.
And I have also added weight training in the most recent nights.
But today I took a day (and night) off from the rigors of autodidactic asceticism.
Yes, today only involved my ongoing survey of Ezra Pound’s Cantos.
Indeed, I suppose I really don’t know how to relax anymore 🙂
But I was very interested to hear Donald Trump’s “Address to Congress”.
This is, mind you, a once-a-year phenomenon in the U.S.
In his next three years (assuming no untimely cessation of his Presidency), these speeches will each be called (respectively) a “State of the Union” address.
Well, I won’t keep you in too much suspense.
If you have read me at all in the past year, you will know that I have become an ardent Trump supporter.
And I continue to be such.
So it is not without immense bias that I posit his speech tonight to have been rather excellent.
But Mr. Trump’s speech comes at a very important time.
And I have purposely raised my visibility as a Trump supporter because of this crucial time.
To wit, many forces have sought and are seeking to undermine the President (at the very least).
The proliferation of protests would truly be remarkable (if we didn’t know the general source and support network for these faux-demonstrations).
And so I haven’t written about a movie in some days, but there is no better viewing than our current President.
The Left tunes in to vomit, and the Right tunes in to cheer.
I am, and have been for only a short time, on the Right.
I will make no apologies about this.
In this past week I have had multiple people who call themselves my friends attack me as a “bigot” and worse.
My response is no response.
It is beneath me to respond to such.
I have had people question my artfulness.
I, who gave my blood-sweat-and-tears for 15 years as an artist.
It is beneath me to qualify such attacks on my character with a response.
And finally, I have been the subject of surreptitious attacks which attempt to equate me with “misguided” artists of the past.
If Trump can be “packaged” (in marketing terms) by hacks like Mika Brzezinski as “Mussolini, Hitler, Lenin”, then I suppose the lesser Leftists are taking this cue to equate me with Nietzsche, Wagner, and certain American artists which shall remain nameless.
But again, my response is no response.
And it’s not because I can’t respond.
But I tire of these games…
I can destroy my enemies.
In some cases, quite easily.
In other cases, with immense effort.
But my friends have proven (over years…the ingrates…abandonment) to now be my enemies in deed.
And yet I consider them friends.
And I will consider them friends.
Until such time as this becomes impossible for my physical safety.
But all of this because I support Trump.
Shame on you, friends.
[N.B. I doubt any of them are reading this. These are “real world” friends. And real pains in the ass(es).]
Indeed, I need more than one ass to put up with the crappy “friends” I have.
To a one, they are all liberal…every one of them.
And if they are conservative, they have not come to my aid in any significant way.
Except for one dear pen-pal.
And it was she who delineated the brilliance in Donald Trump’s message to me in the first place.
She knows who she is 🙂
But that one beautiful soul notwithstanding, “the world” has failed me.
And yet, the President of the United States has made me very proud indeed.
Verily, never before have I felt such immense pride in my country.
Pride in the men and women of our armed forces.
Pride in the men and women of law enforcement.
And so I could dissect what Donald Trump said tonight, but it is more important to analyze the gist.
I could fixate on the pathetic Democrats who applauded nothing…in their Kim Jong-Hillary white pantsuits.
Slobs like Al Franken.
His posture has its own closet…
Witches like Nancy Pelosi.
“Should I clap here? Will it look good or bad if I clap? Why does every mirror I look into shatter upon gaze?”
It’s really too easy.
But it does very little good.
Bernie…what could have been.
Except for that whole socialism thing…which is a crock of shit.
And so it didn’t matter that the Democrats were puerile, impotent faux-testers tonight.
Because Donald Trump has guts.
Yeah, his wife is hot as shit!
And so is his daughter.
That’s because they were MODELS.
But, even more so, because they have SCRUPLES.
They are good human beings.
They stand for something.
THAT’S why they’re really attractive.
But I know when I’ve met my better.
Ted Cruz? Fuck you.
Paul Ryan? I don’t fucking think so.
Mike Pence? Meh.
But Donald Trump? Yeah. Big league!
I may have more formal education than the President of the United States (‘deed I do), but the current POTUS is the real deal.
He knows who is better than him.
And he says it.
And he never presumes that his job is any harder than those who carry out their orders in godforsaken deserts and jungles.
Yes, Virginia, many of those orders have been COMPLETE BOLLOCKS.
But that’s not their job.
It’s the job of policymakers to get the policies right.
For a long, long (LONG) time, the policies have sucked.
And so maybe, MAYBE (maybe) we now have a President who is competent.
I know when I’ve met my better.
There are many skills in this world.
And Donald Trump has a priceless skill set.
He’s not a saint.
He’s not a god.
But compared to those who have preceded him over the past few decades in the job of POTUS, he sure seems like one or the other.
So thank you, Mr. Trump!
Your understanding of the USA is really remarkable.
We have been taught to hate our own country for so long.
Enough of that.
We will love what is good about our past.
And not wallow in our transgressions.
And to the detractors around the globe, you can fuck right the fuck off.
Most of all, to the domestic detractors…especially my “friends”…
Thanks a fucking lot…for proving exactly why Donald Trump is right.
You’re all a bunch of liberal frauds…spewing platitudes while being horrible people.
So the biggest “fuck you” is for these “friends”.
Thanks for nothing, assholes!
The silence is deafening.
And as John Lydon sang, “Anger is an energy.”
Just yesterday I was surprised to run across several articles on the pizzagate scandal.
They jarred me a bit.
Brought me back to that fever pitch of intensity from our election.
That intensity from which I had had to step away.
But there these articles were.
I couldn’t resist.
And they affected me.
And so I made a conscious choice to write about J. Edgar Hoover last night.
[more or less]
But today was a different kind of weirdness.
Today, absolutely no mention of pizzagate on my favorite news site.
And conversely, Google (which is censoring pizzagate research by way of its YouTube platform) is showing strictly fake news as part of its masterly algorithmic results.
If you Google “pizzagate”, you will get these fake news sources:
-The Washington Post (Jeff Bezos’ little pet paper…for when Amazon.com bores him)
–The New York Times
–The New Yorker
plus sycophants like Snopes, The Daily Beast, Huffington Post, Slate, and too many other media losers to succinctly list.
So let me reframe:
as the alternative media went silent today on this topic, the mainstream media (which had been shirking its duty of journalism) went into hyperdrive to cover pizzagate in a very narrow, deceptive manner.
And I can’t lie:
this made me very angry.
But I would like to share a name with you.
It is the name of someone doing truly priceless research on pizzagate.
His name is David Seaman.
And YouTube is where to find him.
So why, then, The Doors?
Because “When the Music’s Over”…
Robby Krieger’s dive bomb guitar.
John Densmore gunshot snare drumming leading out of the pauses.
And Jim Morrison’s screeching howls of ecstatic catharsis on the downbeat.
Truly changed my life.
Just like my first rock concert (The Black Crowes).
It’s not a perfect film, but it teaches us some important lessons.
The right (politically) must understand art.
All of the arts.
The power of art.
And we must know poetry.
We must cogitate from a place of knowledge as we see Oliver Stone’s camera pan over Rimbaud, Artaud, and McLuhan.
And at some point we must make a faltering effort to pronounce Artaud.
We must get into the arena.
Open our ears.
The first time we heard Godard’s name…pronounced relatively correct…out of Ray Manzarek’s mouth.
And we must revisit.
Damn! Is that Dale Cooper?!? And that “d” on the end is not really necessary.
Years and years…of stars and bars…and miles of aisles.
I haven’t had the energy to be angry.
Must be getting better.
It comes and goes.
But we must value anger.
Visceral disgust with our fellow humans who would harm children.
And sober vigilance and sense of duty to see that no child’s life nor future is swept into a crack.
The current psy op in progress is one to try and wrap up (with a bow) the entire pizzagate conspiracy into one deniable package: Comet Ping Pong.
One astute researcher has even mentioned the possibility that the central casting which provided us with the Sandy Hook hoax might have supplied the useful idiot who supposedly stormed the aforementioned establishment.
The psy op is to wrap up the package. To denigrate “fake news”.
To cordon off the “scene” in service to damage control.
But YouTube’s actions taken against David Seaman just make us want to know the truth that much more.
And so there you have it.
Adam Schiff needs a brain transplant.
And Tucker Carlson deserves a raise.
But people like David Seaman are the real rebels here.
Like Jim Morrison, they understand their medium (McLuhan) and they channel their anger through highly-sophisticated, articulate journalism.
To paraphrase my hero Alex Jones, I don’t think the mainstream media and the Clinton camp (the Podesta brothers) really want to get into “the briar patch” of trading punches with the alternative media.
Alex Jones and Matt Drudge are about to squash any dilettantes at the major networks.
And up-and-comers like David Seaman will also be firing truth torpedoes to sink the already-listing ghost ship known as the MSM.
There be monsters…
That gum you like’s gonna come back in style.
Miguel Ferrer defers.
A mere 130 IQ.
Perplexed and amused us for years.
But we are required to go deeper.
To a deeper poetry.
Greatness demands all of us.
Lenny Von Dohlen we knew in every blank gaze.
Every sheepish word.
A foreigner at home within us.
Criminalistics not complete with stylometry of Fort Meade.
A poetry of.
It is beyond MFA.
It is compulsion of unfettered existence.
Tied to entertainment.
I was a bastard brat.
For a moment beneath me.
My higher calling.
Thought a pentagram was imminent.
But the magic is white as MIKE.
Unity of opposites.
We will have much more to say in dissertation form.
A true X file.
With no rational explanation.
Thwarted by every dimension of reality.
And Ray Wise is brilliant.
To ask so much of an actor.
Lord let it rain on me.
What do you think?
I’m asking you.
Fire walk with me.
Only Baudelaire with that kind of darkness.
Maybe even necessitating Lautreamont.
But we will go deeper as we outstrip the functionalities.
And then host for Ezra Pound.
In possession which destroyed Lasker’s first edition.
Belmondo once proved his love.
To use our powers for good.
Hokey fumbling with mysticism.
Deadly accuracy of possession.
We want to know more of Moloch.
And the cremation of care.
There are a handful of great horror movies.
Movies which came late enough to set the bar.
Although the early days of cinema were horrific.
A different style developed.
Rosemary’s Baby has a Hitchcockean subtlety to it.
And so Psycho would be the first true horror movie.
It was a new style of filmmaking.
But Roman Polanski advanced that style.
Perhaps we wouldn’t get another in this line till The Shining.
When great directors dabble in horror.
1960. 1968. 1980.
But horror is an everyman genre.
And so Tobe Hooper made a great one.
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
1960. 1968. 1974. 1980.
A progression from subtlety to overt gore.
But all these films are artful.
Silence of the Lambs resurrected that tradition.
Fear. Terror. Poetry. The flowers of evil.
1960. 1968. 1974. 1980. 1991.
We feel it in Twin Peaks.
But perhaps no film captured the essence of the occult so artfully as Rosemary’s Baby.
It is a truly terrifying film.
Every element is well-placed.
It is an art film. But equally a spectacle. An entertainment.
Most notably, it is a philosophic reflection upon evil.
As I’ve said…science doesn’t admit such.
But we have to wonder.
When such powerful people believe in such mumbo jumbo.
Whether there is power or not. In their ceremonies.
They believe. Ostensibly.
It is a frightening prospect.
A very disturbed element of the intelligentsia.
To understand your enemies.
Science thinks it knows what religion doesn’t.
Religion thinks it knows what science doesn’t.
Romance is a sort of religion.
These are the issues in this rather unremarkable episode of Twin Peaks.
The romance of film criticism seeks to give no spoilers.
Break the code, solve the case.
Handwriting analysis…seems as old and mystical as phrenology.
Because today it is stylometry.
Were it not for Snowden, we’d still be in the dark.
ABSENCE OF LIGHT.
Hoping David Sanborn makes an album called Kryptos.
I INSERTED THE CANDLE.
CAUSED THE FLAME TO FLICKER.
EMERGED FROM THE MIST.
There’s easier ways to get jobs.
To make verb tenses agree.
And to verb agreements tense.
Word pie lay.
The fragments are essential.
Piece by piece.
With ice cream on the side.
Scalia was whisked off.
Like a broom.
He had been a jack of one-eyed secret society. Guest. SS.
Pound’s poetry didn’t go this deep.
To Colombian hell.
It’s trying to think.
Puttin’ on the Ritz.
I thought it was her.
Shame on me.
Eric Da Re. Doremi Fasol Latido.
Rest in pain.
The biggest asshole in television history.
Vs. a perception sharpest blade mind ever.
Even for an actor.
A perverse sense of knowing.
Several stops and starts to get here.
Like the end of Vivre sa vie.
And like the beginning.
Michel Legrand subject to the most genius whims ever.
Lynch is our Godard.
Where the Germans have Schoenberg, we have Ives.
Not the best metaphor.
Length trying your patience.
Like the end of Vivre sa vie.
Where we don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
That is the bathos of mechanical mayhem. Haywire sob hiccups.
G’uh g’uh g’uh.
Over and over and over and over and over again.
The Vladimir Poutine syndicate have goldBRICked with the Meow Zedong overseas intelligence amoeba to form a truly Quebecois brand of! Godspeed.
Kinda like that hockey scene from Strange Brew.
Messiaen at the organ.
Sont. Hellfire. Bohemian.
No Moloch or Moulouk can do it justice.
Moulouk vs. Bébert.
Oui. C’est Ça.
There’s always two sets of books.
You might wade through theories near and far.
About the indestructability of energy.
And they would be true.
Great poets put their pens to page.
And poured out their hearts.
Nain, has a lot of courage to die in this way.
He’s not dying, he’s living.
He’s the positive man.
Wounded and scared.
Since the birth of the gun.
Must be hard to follow an endless stream.
As just a pebble.
And these my feet.
Right about now, the break.
A clinically depressed quarterback.
Idiot savants all.
We welcome more to the eternal return.
Jean Cocteau. Wrote the film.
And Jean Delannoy directed the film.
World War II and two blondes are battling it out in love.
And the only brunette is mon oncle…with his perverse moustache.
They call him Mr. Blond (which makes things extremely confusing).
How you know you have become a writer:
I must write or I will die.
Some famous for writing diaries.
All manner of writing.
And when we first fall in love she is reading.
Like Anna Karina…near the end of Vivre sa vie…or was it Made in U.S.A.?
Should be easy from black white to Lichtenstein popping.
But I see colors when there is only the absence of color.
And specific colors in the full chromatic.
A white scarf.
We can get the sweat of the desert gun running Rimbaud from Jean Marais.
Aden. Mocha. Sanaa.
A hitch in there somewhere to Abyssinia.
In the time of the assassins.
We all descend on Aswan high as kites for burial rites.
Now that I’m flying, I don’t feel so tired.
Two blond specimens of perfection.
Lorded over by the brunette fuhrer.
A war film. Resistance. Don’t capitalize. To hell with the umlaut.
I’m feeling better, getting that out of my system.
That wave of sadness.
Regret and memories lapping at my feet on a Corsican shore. I assume.
Nietzsche to inspire Cocteau. (Occupied Cocteau?)
Cocteau always several orders of magnitude more brilliant than his peers.
Nietzsche was a foundational literature for the Nazis.
And Webster Tarpley has Nietzsche as a foundational literature for the neocons.
And so making this film in censored times. Under German occupation.
The only other film which jumps out at me is Les Visiteurs du soir (1942). And then our L’Éternel retour of 1943.
And so you saved something of the war.
Filming even before the columns of tanks had left.
Culture jamming meets national security state.
It’s a miracle he fell in love with her.
I’m the dwarf. I’m Marais. I’m Murat.
I’m among those lining the street to see Madeleine Sologne’s parade.
And all alone shot with the realization that I’ve found a reader. A genius.
A spark plug pulled from a pocket.
Must step over her bed. To access the stairs.
That’s a moment of love. Slow drag dancing on her cigarette.
As much as blondie’s fatted hair parted smart.
Hear your laughter at being upside down.
Heels over head.
Such a romance as only the French know.
And I know. I seek. Found. Find. No more.
Factories of love struggling with the lutte.
People married to their devices.
Too ugly to get a date.
There we go.
Me and Lester. And Chuck.
Throw some more guys from the skunkworks in.
The name. They work. All night long. Don’t bathe.
Maybe put in another day.
Don’t wash clothes.
Don’t even change clothes.
How “Skunk” Baxter got put on missile defense team.
You never know, folks.
There may be love yet to be had.
Keep your eyes and minds open.
And maybe if it’s even just a boring day.
Maybe there will be little pieces of art in the things you say.
Because you are toiling on something far beyond your current abilities..
So I praise film! And France!
First review written while sleepwalking.
Something about the late night.
And a war movie.
Makes me tired of fighting.
The ongoing war.
Identify: friend or foe?
The Italian partisans were fighting against their own fascist government.
They were fighting against the Nazis.
This will be a little late in coming, but an idea can have a soft opening.
We bombed Sicily.
Clear the beaches.
A daughter-in-law (it is implied) was killed by our bombs.
And now she cannot even have her wake in peace.
She was an egg for a larger omelet. That should be remembered both ways.
Disgusting. And no other way around it.
Warfare in 1943.
Is it a road?
No, it’s lava.
So many misunderstandings in war.
I’m an American.
It is the country of my birth.
And I love my country.
The partisans were fighting the fascists.
The fascists were the outgoing government.
More clearly, I defend the pillars.
Push the limits.
USE your free speech.
Get the word out.
Try to get it right.
Drunk in Naples.
Thinking of DeFord Bailey.
Born same day as me.
Ain’t talkin’. Just walkin’.
You gonna have to eat those boots if you lose them.
Which is a contradiction.
Maria Michi was such a bitch in Roma, città aperta.
We she comes face to face with torture???
And so the OSS fought with the partisans.
Training in explosives. And survival. Every possible scenario.
Basics. Navigation of small boats.
Because poetry is always dangerous.
You might analyze an entire Yankees season in two minutes, but I am
large vast, I contain mul,ti,tudes,,,
Improved upon by the collective unconscious.
Well, Maria Michi redeems herself here.
Still a whore.
But a heart of gold.
Straight from central casting (as Webster Tarpley might say).
I believe it was The Thrills.
Love in vain?
Two lights…diverged in a forest…AC/DC
I alternate between direct and oblique.
That was Rome.
Most notable for war is Florence.
The Rucellai gardens…ah.
I haven’t heard that name in a long time—
We take up Machiavelli to study war.
Because there is something worth defending.
As faded as it is.
Over five-hundred years ago…they were already lamenting.
It’s nothing new.
What Sean Elliott correctly calls curmudgeon talk.
Will Harriet Medin taste youth one more time?
Because the great painter-warrior seems to be in danger.
Across the Arno.
Putting the Po in poverty.
Lou Reed became Transformer.
The Wolf. Lupo.
Call me Winston.
That Rosser Reeves should have died in 1984.
Better living through chemistry.
Thank God for mental illness.
Tonight I’m gonna rock you tonight.
Uffizi with crated antiquity.
A more high-dollar GoldenEye.
We always rebel against our kind.
The imperfect circle of mimesis morphed.
Like watercolors one bleedingintotheother.
Which we would have called word painting for J.S. In a cantata. Or oratorio.
Wasn’t a “years of lead” scale attack. Uffizi. 1993.
But we seem to trace the progression of honorable men (OSS) to bizarre hydra (CIA).
Short sword for thrusting.
To each, his own.
The British (like the Catholics) are portrayed as spoiled twats.
[The Catholics (director Rossellini being Italian) are portrayed lovingly as myopic outliers]
Shakespeare would have been appalled by Shakespeare in Love.
And right before the “Fine” a noyade.
Viz. know your history.
I am guilty as hell.
Of being an idiot.
But I have a lust for life beneath this quiet desperation.